


Mistakes of Animagus Proportions

by Abby_Ebon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hogwarts, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2012-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-09 14:13:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abby_Ebon/pseuds/Abby_Ebon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For LynnGryphon. SLASH. This is how Griffey, the Slytherin chihuahua puppy; a mascot of "Gryffindor Idiocy", came to be found out as an animagus. Who is Griffey? Well, who else but Harry Potter...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Some Things… Just Aren't Worth It

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Slash. Draco/Harry/Blaise. Harry(animagus)!Chihuahua. Beast, if you squint to see past the "awww, how warm-fluffy-cute" scene. I'm very blunt with writing my man-on-man-on-man sex. You won't miss it.
> 
> Author Note; Or "Why Abby Should Not Talk To LynnGryphon About "Chihuahua", "Harry Potter", or "Animagus", In The Same Sentence. Most Especially If The Words "Mini Vibrator" Are Ever Used." In Other Words, Abby Really Should Have Known Better. Luckily, She Does Not.

Harry knew what he was doing – he was this doing for Sirius Black. It was habit, these attempts. It was reassuring, therapeutic even – that he was doing this for his dead godfather rarely crossed his mind. It took all his attention – all of his effort and magic. He was helpless like this.

Alright, so it wasn't something exactly _healthy_. Still, it was a way to remember, or a way to forget.

Sirius had told him how to become an animagus, the process. It took months of retreating into _someplace else_ (because Harry wasn't _sure_ if where he went was _within_ him, or a _somewhere_ all wizards and witches could reach if so determined) until your body no longer felt like it was yours.

It itched, like a bad skin rash. It was annoying. Worse, Harry _knew_ that all he had to do was stop; he only had to let this go. He could not. It had been a promise (if only to himself) – that he would remember Sirius by following his example. Harry _would_ become an animagus. He knew it was dangerous and foolish.

He knew Sirius had meant to do this _with_ him. He knew Sirius hadn't done this alone – there had been Remus and James –his father – and even _the rat_ to help him. To, in the least, offer advice. Harry knew though, that not even Ron would go along with something like _this_ – and that Hermione would not approve. So he would do this, _alone_. With, or without them, he was determined that, in this much, he would follow in the path of his father – his godfather. It was the one thing he could do –by himself, privately - to remember them by.

It would alter him; _change_ him, doing what he intended. It frightened him, but he knew he _had_ to do this. It was marginally better – his loneliness - if he thought of it as honoring Sirius – that while he was doing this, he was being watched out for by him; vaguely it came to him once in a while, the thought always encouraging – even his dad might be proud.

Everyone has a certain expectations of him, his aunt and uncle and cousin expected him to fail and come crawling back to them – his friends expected him to be noble and honorable and true – his enemies expected for him to lay down at their feet when he was bloody and beaten – his mentors expected him to rise against the odds – the wizarding world at large expected him to act the part of a shinning shield, to stand while he lived between them and the dark, unmarred.

Harry only expected that he _would_ do _this_. He _would_ succeed. He _would not_ accept failing.

Harry kneeled slowly down on the Owlery floor, his back to the rounded stone wall. Fluttering wings stilled, shrill calls and soft clicks and sounds hushed. He felt as if hundreds of eyes were watching him, _waiting_. With the sensation thick on his mind, he closed his eyes and went _someplace else_ – aware that the itching of his skin had become something more like painful sunburn.

 _This_ time, something would change.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Harry opened his eyes; then blinked. A feather – caught in mid fall though the air – caught his eyes. Things around him had stopped. He wondered if he had done something wrong. Was the _someplace else_ he had stumbled across (he thought with a large bit of sarcasm and a bit of curiosity- and a lesser amount of bitter irony) the "power the Dark Lord knows naught"?

Dumbledore thought it would be love, but Harry felt that the _someplace else_ was like nothing he had ever known. It was confusing, and he barely knew himself when he came back to his body. His body, in fact, always felt _wrong_.

Which, _this time_ , it did not…

Was he still within the _someplace else?_

Whatever had caught the feather (had stopped a swooping owl…?) that had stilled and stopped the sounds around him – violently _lurched_ time and motion and place back into proper normalcy.

Harry _yelped_ , as if in vengeance – everything was _loud_ (he didn't think that to be his imagination as the still-soundless moment might have been; he could hear the rustling of feathers and felt as if every _noise_ was invading and echoing within his skull, determined to be acknowledged – as if for the first time in his life the _sounds_ knew he could hear –it _hurt_ ), he was could _smell_ (bird poop, blood, and worse – why had he not noticed the _stench_?), and _see_ (the vivid threads of color that he had buried his head into in hopes of dulling his other senses – instead they seemed to intensify as if mocking him with the irony), he could even _taste_ the "scent" of his musky, sweaty shirt. It was filthy. He didn't think it was entirely his imagination that he smelled Dudley (even though these clothes were _his_ , and had been for years) worse was the feeling, his sense of touch was sensitive –everything felt harsh and as if it _meant_ to hurt him – he was so cold; he shivered and tumbled in the cool cloth of his garments, why had he picked the _Owlery_ of all places?

It didn't take too much of a leap of logic to know that _somehow_ – his determination had paid off. He was changed. He was an animagus. He wished he was not. He had no idea what he was, but whatever it was didn't feel like a very pleasant creature to be. Still, it seemed a waste of time to go through with _all this_ , and then not even _bother_ to find out _what_ he was before he went to the _someplace else_ (he was fairly sure that doing so would change him back to normal) to become himself once more.

He wiggled a little bit backwards into the shirt that had fallen around him, it felt as if he was walking on his hands and feet at the same time- so he guessed he was four legged, he was cold though – yet he didn't feel sleepily – so he knew he was not a reptile.

 _Thank Merlin – I'm not a snake_.

He was sure _little_ though. He yipped, the fear taking him; _was he a rat_?

He spun around quickly to see his tail. It was nothing naked and ugly like a worm – instead, his gut twisting, Harry saw that it was _furry_ and _wagging_ …he had hair – not feathers, so he would not be able to fly – it was just as well, he did that well enough on a broom.

 _Was he a cat_?

He was too little…he ducked his head down to get a look at his "feet" – they were paws, the little nails (sharp, he saw with relief) dug carelessly into the black robes.

 _Oh, Merlin, no_ …

Was he a ferret? He wiggled again, trying to see how flexible he was – he ended up falling onto his belly. He wasn't a ferret (and couldn't remember any other small mammals with tails that he _might_ be) this time, the sound he made startled him – a vicious little annoyed _growl_.

 _A…dog_?

He would have thought he was too _little_ to be that – but he remembered Aunt Petunia raving about "new" models with small dogs. Those were coming back into fashion, he remembered, because of the old paintings of noble ladies with the little lap dogs….he only hoped he wasn't one of those short haired ones that looked like rats. Or the ones that looked shaved, but were born with some sort of mutation of the genes. He was fairly certain he wasn't though – his fur of his back end and tail and legs and paws had been thick soft-looking and black. It hit him then, what he was – a _lap dog_.

Harry curled his lip in distaste, he would have closed his eyes and would have went swiftly and willingly into the _someplace else_ ….if he hadn't heard the footsteps coming quickly up the stairs. The pile of clothes would have been noticed, he knew – more so, would a naked Harry Potter in the Owlery _._

Harry _really_ didn't want to have to deal with such rumors and gossips and questions in his _last year_ of Hogwarts. So he huddled into the pile of clothes (it was a little bit warmer, though he was still shivering) and hoped the shadowed corner would hide him well enough.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Millicent Bulstrode expected her owl (a proud black barn owl with a blue-gray crest and sharp silver eyes) to land on her shoulder as she (called "Reverence") had been trained when Millicent came into sight as she stepped into the Owlery _._ Millicent did not like such places, and liked waiting or lingering within them she liked even less.

She had made a careful study of when Reverence came and went on her hunts, so as to avoid such inconvenience. Millicent knew then, when Reverence had to be _called_ to her from her perch (Millicent would have said her owl seemed spooked, if the notion had not been so silly) that something had shifted from the normal routine that Reverence had kept to for seven years.

Millicent knew she would have to look into it, if only because it had – after all - inconvenienced her. Still, she tied the letter to Reverence's leg and –perhaps because of her annoyance - or alerted by the fact that _something_ had changed and owls were very particular about the Owlery, Millicent lifted her arm and _expected_ Reverence to fling herself into the daylight sky and be on her way.

Instead, she lifted and hovered over Millicent protectively – as if threatened, or _hunting_. Millicent looked quickly to the corner of the Owlery which Reverence was wary of. There was nothing there – still, curiosity had gotten the better of her – she walked to the rounded off corner, only to walk into the pile of clothes that had been left carelessly behind.

Millicent pressed her lips together, eyes narrowing. She knew that an owl would – given the chance – eat such things, thinking to ease their digestion. It was a fool thing to do, letting the whole Owlery the chance of sickness or worse. It was careless – yet, the clothes had not been left behind long – there was no dust on them, or tearing. Still, she would not leave the things here even if there was the possibility of someone coming back to claim them.

Millicent reached down, noticing the black student robes – and wondering if there was a badge to go along with them. Reverence shrieked and swooped – and Millicent nearly screamed when the cloth moved and leaped and struggled so near her hand. Her heart beating in her throat – Millicent yanked her wand only to feel weak in the knees and silly when a little black puppy struggled free.

Caught by such surprise she laughed, and then became slowly furious as she put what pieces she had together. Cloths left oh-so-carelessly behind – an abandoned puppy huddling in them, frightened – and owls that would see such a small pup as prey. Her own owl, acting as if she was on the hunt….

Boldly, thinking nothing of the little pup and its tiny teeth – Millicent checked the robe where a badge might be.

… _Gryffindor_.

She curled her lip, thinking she might as well have _guessed_.

Startled, the pup had yipped at her hand – so close to it – and then froze as if undecided about what to do about the stranger. Millicent forced herself to relax, letting her hand fall loose – the pup could think that a fist would mean being hurt (she would not put hurting even such a adorable _puppy_ beyond a Gryffindor, even if they meant to kill it by abandoning it in a Owlery and avoiding getting their oh-so-noble hands bloody) as if not-quite-sure of what to do, the pup came closer – sniffing her fingers, its little nose was cold.

That, Millicent knew, was not the best of signs to its health. Too quickly for the pup to do much but yelp his surprise, she had plucked him from his "bed" of abandoned clothes and let him fall in her robe pocket. It was with some satisfaction she burnt the abandoned clothes – keeping only the badge. It would be evidence, if only proof that the pup had not been hers originally. Still, she intended to keep him – the smell of the burning clothes reminded her that supper was near – and the pup, even if he had only been here since lunch, would be hungry.

Millicent knew that she would be missed by her fellow Slytherin housemates. There was no choice in the matter – she had to go to supper…and take the puppy with her, if only to see him fed. It was worth the risk.

So decided, Millicent reassuringly patted the little budge that was the puppy in her , she knew if she were caught – she would take the part of the hero and scoff dirt onto the "noble" and "true"Gryffindor reputation.

Her lingering smug smile was not at all a pleasant. It was a promise of vengeance to come.


	2. Trying Not To Panic

Harry couldn't see, and he was trying not to panic. It wasn't often that he was prone to _panicking_ , per say, usually he could do something to bring about the end of his fear or danger – even if he did it, feet first with on the spot ( _read: no_ ) planning - but it seemed that it was far easier to fear something to _this point_ , when one was tiny and _couldn't see_. Harry yipped in protest to this treatment, as he couldn't really help the instincts swimming about the front of his brain.

Panicking was, in this small shape, all too easy. He knew what he was, a wizard, but it simply _did not matter_ what he knew, only what he could do. And he couldn't do anything folded into a little pocket, tucked into the dark. He could not see, and he was too small to dare do anything but shiver and yip, he'd seen the flash of a green Hogwarts badge – and that meant one thing: _Slytherin._

Whoever had put him in a robe pocket (and wasn't that _humiliating_ enough?) wasn't likely _nice_. Was probably a bully, like Draco, like Severus Snape…Harry whimpered a bit, considering the new and interesting turn there; he would be (literally) right under Snape's nose, and likely it'd only take a glance for the git to recognize him for what he was, then _further_ humiliate him. Harry squirmed uncomfortably at the thought, hardly realizing what he was doing.

If it was possible, things then got _worse_.

"What have you got there, Bulstrode?" Mocking and low, Harry _knew that voice_. He perked up his little ears, trying to be very still, but knowing he was shivering all over with all kinds of new fears.

"Flint." It was hissed and clear that whoever Bulstrode was, she was a girl (as Harry didn't properly know any of the Slytherin girls as they tended to not get involved with him and Draco, save Pansy) and more importantly, she didn't sound like she liked Marcus Flint in the least.

"It's nothing _you_ need to concern yourself with." Bulstrode cupped her hand protectively around her pocket – and Harry. It was a comfort, but still the fear griped him, controlling his shivers.

"I'll concern myself with whatever I want, thank you very much." Flint was much closer now, not even an arms length away, and stepping closer with every word. Bulstrode stepped back once, or tried to – and met the wall – she was turning to the side where he rested in her pocket at, toward the solid surface, making a barrier of her own body. For the first time, Harry began to wonder if they _both_ weren't in danger.

"Go away, Flint." If Bulstrode was frightened, her voice did not show it, it was as matter of fact as such a request could be.

"No." Harry felt it when Bulstrode jerked away from the wall and Flint's grip. Doing so exposed her side – the side Harry rested in the pocket of. Flint was quick to take advantage, snatching at her robes – and perhaps it was by accident that he grabbed Harry too tightly and he yipped out in pain.

"What's this?" Flint asked, triumphant and stilling Bulstrode somehow in a way that Harry could not see or feel from how she moved. Flint's hand came into the pocket, and Harry flinched a little even as he was boldly hefted up and out. He saw Bulstrode then for the first time up close, her jaw jutted out furiously, teeth grinding, black hair curled elegantly away from her face, and her eyes focused on Flint with an intensity that would have given Harry pause.

"Let him go." Bulstrode hissed, her hand hovering over her ear, where her wand was tucked. Flint raised Harry up to his face, flingers crushing his ribs. Harry couldn't breath, couldn't make a sound to protest this treatment – he was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it – and no one would save him.

"If that's what you wish?" Flint murmured cruelly, tauntingly letting go – as if to drop Harry – and then catching him with a grip around his neck.

"No!" Bulstrode cried out in protest, belatedly. Harry had yipped sharply, and struggled with his lower body now that his torso was free, if his head was not.

"I'll do it, _do not_ test me, Flint." A wand was now pointed at Flint's chest, but the older boy only laughed. Harry struggled all the more, truly panicking now: what if Bulstrode's spell went awry? She wasn't much good at them, he remembered from the duel she'd had with Hermione in second year.

"Give up your hopes for this one; I think he'll strangle himself before we're done." Amused, Flint raised Harry up to eye-level, watching the little dangling body twist and turn mid-air. Harry was panting for breath, the lights going dim and his head feeling soft, his toes and tail tips were numb and he was very, very afraid.

His bladder chose that moment to agree with Flint in deciding he was dying; he let it loose all over the Slytherin's mocking face. In surprise, he was let loose with an outraged yell – Bulstrode must have been expecting as much, for a spell caught him up mid air and dropped him into two gently cupped hands.

"Good show, Bulstrode." It took Harry a moment to realize the one holding him had spoken, and that person was not Bulstrode herself. A finger stroked his back reassuringly, holding him back from looking up and doing something other then breathing.

"Flint. Why don't you go…clean up?" Harry could practically hear the sneer, being unable to do much more then crouch on the palm of the hand's that held him and pant for the breath he needed to live.

"That _stupid_ Quidditch Quaffle-pocking Chaser, I don't see why they made that, _that bully_ a Perfect. Is he alright?" Bulstrode asked urgently, her worry and fear for Harry plain in her hasty words.

"Careful, Millicent, he's _my_ Captain." Harry dreading the urge to look up, but he did so, and found he was blinking up at none other then Draco Malfoy, his savior.

"You like him less then I do." Bulstrode pointed out, and for the first time Harry noticed where he was – and well he should, having been there once before – the Slytherin common room, with its earthen stone walls having been carved down into the earth rather then put up above it; green lamps lit it in a dim light, and the dark green, near black colored, furniture seemed to wait, almost sinister in the shadows.

"Where ever were you going with this little fellow?" Malfoy asked, and having noticed the shivering coming over the little body, once the panting for breath was largely over with, pulled Harry closer to his navel, it was steadier to be near something bigger and not held aloft in the air. Harry wondered if he'd have a fear of heights, now. Bulstrode did not answer, her lips tightly pressed together and her eyes looking away.

" _You_ know aren't allowed pets, Bulstrode. Whatever will you tell Professor Snape if he finds out you broke your word to him?" Even obviously prodding, Harry had never heard Malfoy sound so reasonable.

"He'd…understand." Bulstrode said, as if in protest, weakly finishing.

"It's his word, _his honor_ – he's a wizard with little else." Malfoy wasn't telling her anything she didn't know, that much was obvious, but Bulstrode swallowed, her eyes lingering on the puppy cradled in Malfoy's hands, warmed by a torso that seemed to be giving off more heat then Harry thought possible for one boy. None the less, Harry leaned into the warmth gratefully.

"I found him in the Owlery, with a _Gryffindor badge_ on some pile of too-big and ugly clothes, he's been _abandoned,_ Malfoy." Harry tied not to flinch too much at that brutal honesty of his life; it was as close as anyone had come to the truth to dare say it aloud. Even if Bulstrode was talking about a puppy, and _not_ a puppy she knew to be the Boy Who Lived.

"Then we'll keep him, and take _better care_ of him. Shove it in their oh-so-noble Gryffindor faces, too, be something like a mascot, for the younger ones." There was a growing fondness for the idea in Malfoy's voice; Harry didn't like the idea at all.

"Then you'll take care of him?" Bulstrode questioned, doubtful and challenging. Malfoy had never been one to step down from a direct challenge if there wasn't a plan of trickery from the start. Malfoy shrugged in agreement, and walked away, Bulstrode stood watching for a while, an odd little smile on her face. It seemed to Harry, that Malfoy had been the one who'd gotten the wool pulled over his eyes, for Bulstode certainly looked as if she thought to have pulled one over on him.

The Great Hall was loud and had Harry wishing for the Slytherin's eerie silence within a moment of hearing it, and most distressing was what he was hearing.

"Have you heard?" Crabbe asked upon setting sights on Malfoy, waiting only long enough till he was sitting in his customary seat between the two lumbering bullies.

"Potter's disappeared from Hogwarts." Goyle finished in a rush, smirking over at Crabbe in triumph.

"Congratulations, then." There was something oddly bitter in how Malfoy said it, and it made Harry take a second look at the blond boy who'd perched him on the Slytherin table in plain view of _everyone_. Mostly, though, to Harry's surprise - they were ignoring him. Then again, they looked to be waiting, as if an explanation was forthcoming, if only Malfoy would find the time to provide it.

"Oh, they aren't to be _congratulated_ , the Boy Who Lived to be Lost went missing, right under their noses, too." Blaise Zabini spoke up, voice soft and amused. Crabble glowered at him, while Goyle sneered as if Zabini wasn't worth his information.

" _That_ is interesting, is it?" Malfoy asked him, dryly, but relieved. That, Harry knew he hadn't imagined, this time. Why, he wondered, was _Malfoy_ so interested in his being kidnapped by the Dark Lord, from the sound of things?

"Oh, he's just _adorable_!" A girlish squeal rung out and Harry flinched from the too loud sound, even as careful fingers rubbed under his chin soothingly.

"Adorable is he?" Snarled a voice Harry would be very unlikely to forget.

 _Flint_. Harry's heart was racing, and he crouched close to the table top, _trembling_ and his teeth showing though he made no sound.

"Yes, he is. What's gotten into you, have you been scaring the puppy?" Snapped the same girly voice, likely having noticed the profound effect Flint's appearance had had on Harry, it was funny that she growled her words while before they had sounded to Harry so inviting and soothing.

"No, he's just sour as the little _Gryffindor reject_ showed a spine while he was tormenting him." Malfoy commented, and his words had quite the sudden effect on those who were sitting near and so clearly listening. They went silent, serious and staring – waiting made all the more obvious.

"Whatever did such a little puppy do?" Zabini played along in asking.

"Pissed all over his face, that _little puppy_ did." Bulstrode stated crudely and proudly from behind Flint, who stiffened up all over. They didn't laugh or clap aloud, these listening Slytherin students, but there was something oddly _approving_ in their look.

"Rightly so, I'd guess." Goyle grumbled approvingly, clearly no fan of Flint.

"I suppose that is what _that smell_ is, Flint?" The girly voice asked, child like.

"I thought I told you to clean up?" Malfoy asked of the older boy, his nose curling upward as if to catch a draft of clean air upwind. Flint was remarkably calm looking, for someone who should for all appearances be stomping off. Harry had to wonder if the Slytherin's always acted so to Flint, in their own way they certainly seemed disapproving of the Perfect who was also Capitan of their Quidditch team.

They certainly weren't treating _Malfoy_ like that.

"Oh, the poor thing, he's trembling still! Daphne **,** perhaps I ought to knit some sort of sweater for him?" The girl that Harry had not recognized all along, that one with the girly voice mused to another – older girl – who sat near. That one, she smiled in a sisterly way, seeming unable to help herself, and looked to Pansy Parkinson then to the younger, nodding to where Malfoy sat.

"If that is what you want to do, Astoria – ask _him_ first." The difference that Malfoy was given by his peers was obvious, noticeable even to someone like Harry who avoided Slytherin's if he could help it. Ruefully, he realized his mistake now – for he could not help anything of what he did or didn't know, and how'd it changed from how it had been.

"May I?" She folded her hands under her chin, pouting childishly as she pleaded.

"Certainly, I suppose." Harry noticed the pink tinge to Malfoy's cheeks, if no one else did.

"Grand! I simply _must_ paint his nails green." Harry was under her inspection, he was aware. He was determined not to whimper.

"You certainly _mustn't_. Silver would go along better with his fur." Bulstrode argued teasingly. Harry wasn't fooled though, there was something _determined_ in how they were looking at him, as if imagining him in all the colors of the rainbow.

Or at least the ones that suited him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a very long time, you have my sincere apologizes, but no excuses; this is one of those stories where I have a number of cute little scenes I want to string together into an unwilling story. It's a pain to write something this way, as most of what I want to write I can only get to if I write the rest of it first; like wanting treats first and having to eat the meal. Ugh, just no fun and sometimes a bore to get into, but once you start; finishing is an easier job to grasp.
> 
> But, as I made a deal with loretta527, it was this updated, or a new Gundam Wing/Harry Potter story – this first, I decided; you can vote if you like to for the choices I've put up for a Gundam Wing/Harry Potter cross' I do hope they prove to be unique.

**Author's Note:**

> …. I think this was supposed to be for LynnGryphon's birthday… if so, this is likely some large number of months off. Uhm, oppsie? This has actually been creeping about in my head for a year – or at least since January '08…


End file.
